Tuesday, February 14, 2006

A Steadfast Journey Off the Edge


The wall I hit this week
with my head
angled down
slight hint of frown
upon my face, now,
not from disgrace, though,
curious of how I became so blind
during a heat wave with clear skies but blurred mind;
and still resolutely moving forward
off the edge.

It’s no end,
they say,
only a friend, or friends...
groups and groups of them
and another day.
The loss is neither impenetrable nor permanent
but it leaves a scar
as though run over by a car,
no, a truck,
oh Fuck. Now it’s hurting. That’s the feeling.

So I’m flirting,
playing and saying,
“I’m ok, I’m ok”, mantra, mantra, Om Om
and it fools my mind
for a length of time
until I’m smiling again.
Another hit
Please stop; stop it. But it doesn’t.
Until I’m alone, here,
in this home that I
that should feel like an asset
but becomes more like a rusted anchor
cell for a joker more so every day.
That canker sore on my tongue
makes a strange dreamlike memory, that’s yet to
feel blissful
and painful
at the same time. That hurt we love to love.

Turtle doves and chocolates are
so conspicuously absent today
good riddance to those
objects, subjects we become for consumption:
hearts and candy.
Oh how dandy for those happy folk.
The one that got away
The one that broke
is a choice not a joke.
Just not anything else,
you see?
They won’t understand this though.
In a different moment your own world moves slow
and you feel,
for real,
the essence and pour it into a mold
with a hundred-year shelf life.
Not me boy,
I’m feeling it fresh as can be
young and vibrant, horny and hard,
skin deep and then some.
Feels good. Feels good.

So you’re tired and you’re up,
“Such a pup!” they say.
It’s merry and gay for a while
living in style
but keep coming back to the fray.
Laugh. Cry.
Breath in and be high
on life’s infections. A partner’s inflections.
The small things. Pet peeves torn sleeves and spots.
There’s still more to come.


It’s starting to feel like ’96.
Disturbing mix of
Joy and elation,
and loss. Sorrow and loss.
“Never again! We’ll write and we’ll win
the battle against age and
Find some bliss and never miss
each other.
But I do, now, brother, I do. Friend. Father.
Whomever! It’s damn well
forever until tomorrow.
And not a thing you can do to change that.

“The writing is good again,”
clucks the hen. And my teeth chatter
and my skin tears
and the holes bear the signs of age.
If she were here nagging the rooster.
It’d be the booster.
The company, comfort and smiles
hugs during those ‘whiles’ we all know
would kill the essence of
the ink.
AH! It would stink of rotting acceptance
and the paper
would become a toothy trap.
A bad rap.
So then we’d argue. Did we argue? You and I? Family?
Friends who I prematurely miss?
No. So it’s genuine, then.
Let the plague of unknown reciprocity begin!

Can’t win. Why do you fight?
Buddha is right. But something
irks me on the outside, round belly.
The inside, it’s at peace.
That’s a lie and a disgrace;
no, but we feel it, we do. For example?
Well, 15 minutes at a time.
Travel on someone else’s dime
I can pick up and go
find sun and snow and make memories
in essays and entries.
So what? So words? So I can bring them back
home. Home? HOME?!
And show the world.
The truth is unfurled and ugly.
We create all those feelings
and send them off so nicely wrapped
to have them never unpacked.
Does anyone look? Really look? Really know? Really read?
Do you read what others are saying,
peak your interests in their video spelling
bee of life. Not even a husband and wife
watches the other’s journey that closely.
We live and breath and smile for the rare exceptions.
I found one. Once. I think. Have you?
Want one? I’ll sell myself cheap! Pennies on the dollar
these days
the haze clears and I steer myself
back from the edge for one more entry.
The sentry must have us all infinite times by now.

It’s not all bad.
Life’s a la carte. I’m smart
enough so
not to fight the wind and rain.
But sometimes the drain makes the bucket overflow
and so
you get this, you see?
Pure outlet of energy and love. A gift to you on Valentine’s Day.
Doesn’t matter who you are.
Love doesn’t care.
Therein lies its beauty and it’s deception.
A Catch-22
just for you. Wrapped in a chocolate bow.


Try to understand, just for a moment,
this is how I love. I wish I knew how the rest do it.
I wish to find how the best feel it.
And I will. We all will.
Candy hearts and all.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

..this one is particularily lovely